Page 204 of The Exit Strategy

TEA AND TISSUES

JUNIE

Bea’s wearinga lavender cardigan when I walk onto her porch at nine. It’s the color I’ve noticed she wears when she decides we’re about to do something difficult. And now the early morning session that has never once been an early morning session makes sense.

She wants to have the entire day free to drill into me whatever lesson I need to learn.

There’s also a box of tissues where our tea usually sits.

I contemplate running home for all of three seconds. Something tells me beyond reason that this old lady would chase me down and drag me right back here.

“Juniper.”

Good lord. Full first name.

“Bea.”

“Sit down. We’re going to finish what we started three weeks ago.” She stares at me with a don’t-fuck-with-me expression until I trudge up the steps and flop into my seat.

I bet she writes off these sessions on her taxes even if she doesn’t send me a bill. We’ll talk about that later.

“Three weeks ago, you told me you’d been keeping a promise to your five-year-old self.”

“Just jumping right in today, huh, Bea?”

“You said you wanted to, and I quote, ‘un-honor it,’” she says, ignoring my sass. She’s become proficient at it lately. “Then you asked me what that verb was. Do you remember what I told you?”

“You said the verb didn’t matter. It was whatever I needed it to be that day.”

“Mm-hmm.” She begins to rock in her chair, a slow, steady rhythm. “Well, that damn verb’s been giving me trouble too. So I’ve been thinking, and I would like to offer you one, on the condition that you take it or leave it. You don’t have to use it on this porch or anywhere else, but if it’s useful, you may take it with you.”

“Okay.” I’m now on high alert. This sounds like some kind of witchcraft, and witches have historically not fared well.

“The verb,” Bea says calmly, “is releasing. You’re not breaking the promise you made to yourself at five. Promises we make ourselves are generally important, and it makes it hard to forgive ourselves if we break them. But you can release yourself from the five-year-old who needed it. From the service of it. The duty. From the job of running your life. That little girl’s been at the helm for nineteen years, sweetheart. She’s tired. You can help her off that ledge.”

Every inch of my body has broken out in a light sheen of perspiration. “Releasing.” I test the word.

“Releasing.”

“That’s better than un-honoring,” I say dryly.

“It’s a much better verb, yes. You may keep it or trade it in.” Bea says it as though she’s talking about a used car andshe couldn’t care either way. Except I know Bea now—she cares very deeply.

“And—” I stare down at my hands, where my knuckles are white from holding my fists too tightly. It takes a few seconds for me to unclench them. “What happens to the five-year-old if I release her?”

Bea smiles. She stops rocking, leans over, and places her bony hand on top of mine. “She goes back into your memory where you’ll keep her safe. Where she belongs, dear.”

“The lavender cardigan was a good call, Bea,” I say through a choked sob.

Bea hands me some tissues and rocks next to me while I…release.

The fear.

The shame.

The anger.

The sadness.